Sherlock Isn't a Girl's Name (Formerly Some Assembly Required)
by Penniless Cosplayer
Summary: Sherlock was a little boy who lived with his mother and father and older brother. The problem was, everyone insisted that he was a little girl named Andrea. This little boy grew up to be a man, like he was supposed to. Not everyone liked that. Trans!Sherlock
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock is only eight years old when he first tries to convince himself that he doesn't care what people think, what they say.

People refuse to believe what he knows is true.

He isn't a sweet, adorable little girl. He is a boy.

''Andrea Celeste, what have you done to your beautiful hair!'' His mother shrieks

Sherlock simply stands there, scissors in hand. He won't hide it from his mother, it is impossible to. Long, dark ringlets are scattered on the bathroom floor, and the hair that once reached his mid-back now curls around his ears in a boyish way.

Sherlock likes it. It just seems right.

His mother doesn't think so.

''I cut it like it's supposed to be, Mummy.'' He sets the scissors on the sink, running his fingers through his newly short hair.

''Young lady.'' It doesn't take much for Mummy to be scary, and hands placed on her hips means Sherlock will probably be in trouble for a good long time. ''People are going to think you're a boy, and I don't want that.''

Never mind what Sherlock wants, it is all about Mummy. Sherlock's eyes are piercing as he glares at the floor. He isn't stupid. Glaring at Mummy will not make things any better.

''You clean this up, now. No chemistry set until we get you looking like a proper young lady again.''

Sherlock doesn't get the chance to reply before Mummy turns and leaves the room.

With a sigh, Sherlock fetches a broom to sweep it all up. It gives him a bit of pleasure to see all of his hated hair on the floor, in a pile, and finally in the bin where he can forget it ever existed.

Now he'll just have to do something about these stupid dresses his mother insists he always wear.

With a smirk that seems a little too mature for his small, round face, he picks up the scissors again. He can do without his chemistry set for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

It is only two years later that Sherlock develops his cold, almost cruel manner.

It all starts with his teacher.

Sherlock's stare is icy. The chalkboard at the front of the classroom holds one of his least favorite words on it.

Pronouns

It appears innocent enough, just a simple lesson in the English language. To his ridiculously dull classmates, that's exactly what it is. He'd learned this bit at age four.

''Now, pronouns are words that take the place of nouns. Words like it, they, he, she,'' that last word, with that emphasis and that dagger glance in his direction pierces Sherlock's chest like an arrow. His bottom lip twitches, but he won't let out any other sign of a reaction.

This is a battle, and Sherlock won't let his weaknesses show.

The first day he came to this school, he tried to explain what exactly he wanted from this teacher. He'd requested, with a smile and a please even, that she use the name Sherlock when talking about him and use male pronouns for him.

She then proceeded to introduce him to the class as Andrea, the new girl.

Sherlock had hated her ever since.

''Tell us some examples of a pronoun in a sentence, will you, Andrea?'' The teacher gives him a sickly sweet smile, but her eyes seem sharp.

The hatred is mutual, especially since Sherlock had pointed out her husband's affair. At first she laughed it off, but soon afterwards he overheard her talking to another teacher about how she couldn't trust her husband.

''Obviously, I'll have to explain the whole thing, considering you don't know what pronouns to use.'' His voice is clear and high and cold, as if he is superior to her. He likes this feeling of being the best in the room.

''Perhaps we should go back to the lesson on proper nouns, since you don't know how to use them properly either.'' He adopts a smirk, knowing that he and the teacher are the only two in the room that have any sort of idea what he is talking about.

''Miss Holmes, I'm afraid you can't stay here if you're going to act like that. I'll have to send you to the office.''

''If that's an invitation to leave, then I'll take it. If not, goodbye anyway.''

He stands, scoops up his backpack, and leaves without another word.

Sherlock arrives at the office at nearly the same moment his brother does.

''What now, sister dear?'' Mycroft knows. He always knows. Asking is just a habit.

Sherlock gives him nothing but a stare.

All he gets in return is a sigh of disappointment.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock is thirteen, and he can't sleep.

He's been waiting for it to come for three days. All the warning signs are there.

It finally happens when he is in the shower, trying his best to ignore the slight hints of curves his body was getting.

As expected, a dull ache begins in his lower abdomen, slowly building until it feels as if his belly is being carved open by a sadistic murderer.

Sherlock tries his best to ignore it, but it persists, causing him to clench his teeth.

He goes through the motions of rinsing shampoo out of his hair and washing soap off of his body, concentrating on anything but the pain.

After his shower, he raids the medicine cupboard for any sort of painkillers, and under the sink for the pads his mother has bought for him.

He won't touch the tampons.

A handful of pills and a pad later, he lays on his bed, staring at his ceiling fan in wonder.

He finds he likes the feeling of drugs coursing through his system.

As Sherlock's cycle goes on, he finds himself relying on the pills more and more to function around the cramps.

If Mycroft sees what is happening to his younger sibling, he doesn't say.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock is sixteen, and his body is betraying him.

The estrogen his ovaries are producing is causing what little body fat he has to settle in all the wrong places.

Just a little less. He can do without until he gets home from school.

Just a little less food, and he'll get rid of those ghastly hips.

He needs to banish his curves. He invites in hipbones and collarbones, cheekbones and long, thin fingers.

A little less, and his breasts will shrink.

During lunch, Sherlock fills his stomach with water. He hasn't eaten since last night's dinner, the unavoidable meals that Mummy forces on them all.

Mycroft never has to worry about his weight. He can eat all he likes and his figure stays perfectly masculine.

Sherlock hates Mycroft.

He stays out late tonight, having told his mother that some girl has asked for his help in class.

He takes a long walk through the countryside, ignoring his hunger to the best of his ability and avoiding his family.

When he gets home, it's dark. His mother and father have gone to bed.

Only Mycroft is awake, reading a newspaper with a single lamp in the darkness. The drama queen.

He sighs. ''Andrea. You must eat something eventually.''

''I'm not hungry, Mycroft.'' Sherlock would sound much more intimidating if his voice was deeper.

''I know.'' Mycroft sets down his newspaper. ''I know.''

''Leave me alone, Mycroft.'' Sherlock shoots a glare in his direction, walking past him to his bedroom.

Mycroft catches his wrist, which wouldn't have stopped him normally. But Sherlock pauses this time.

''Let go of my wrist.''

Mycroft doesn't. ''Mummy worries about you. Don't make her cry, Sherlock.''

Sherlock doesn't want to process what he's just heard until he's alone.

Despite his aching hunger, Sherlock doesn't reach for the painkillers tonight.

Sherlock loves Mycroft.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock is nineteen, and he's finally made it to university. He would have never gotten in on his own, and he knows that.

Mycroft must have either pity or hatred for his brother.

Sherlock's officially a junkie, the money from his account is slowly being sucked out by his habit.

His classes are so _dull,_ the people simple, ordinary. He attends just enough to pass. No more, no less.

He needs the cocaine now more than ever. He needs to come down to the people's level so that he doesn't just snap.

His regular dealer already has Sherlock under his thumb. He brings him something special, something he's been needing.

''Brought you something. Some T. Cost me a small fortune, you better pay.'' He grins, knowing Sherlock would do nearly anything to get it.

Testosterone.

He can't believe that he has it, there in his hands.

It's far more expensive than the cocaine, but it's worth it. It replaces the drugs, slowly at first. He needed the cocaine. He _needs_ the T.

His voice drops. What was once a high, soft, woman's voice is now a deep, almost seductive purr. Unmistakably male.

People begin noticing the changes in his body. Sherlock doesn't care, doesn't listen to what people say.

Suddenly, his accounts are frozen. He can't pay for the new batch of T, though he's already taken it.

''You said you'd have the money.'' His dealer's voice is deadly calm.

''Accounts are all locked up. Can't get a penny out.'' Sherlock replies. He's trembling, itching for his next dose. He needs it.

''Beg for it.''

''No.''

His dealer's eyes flash, and his hands are in Sherlock's hair in an instant. He's pulling and controlling Sherlock like a puppet.

''Beg for it, bitch.'' He growls.

''No.'' Sherlock would never sink to doing that.

Sherlock's dealer pushes him to his knees, shoving his face into his crotch.

''Since you don't have the money, you're going to get me off, like the good little girl you are.'' He smirks, the smirk of those in power.

Sherlock briefly weighs the options.

T or no T?

Risking sexually transmitted diseases?

How badly does he need this?

Sherlock bites his dealer's zipper and pulls it down with his teeth.

He needs it.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock is twenty-two, and he's tired of monotony.

He wishes the police would listen to his advice.

''Your wife's sleeping with another man... your neighbor again, isn't it?'' Sherlock only glances up at the man next to him.

The man nearly chokes on his nearly empty drink. ''How the hell...?'' He asks, turning toward Sherlock.

''I heard a few things. Work's been more stressful than usual, too.'' Sherlock actually looks at his neighbor at the bar. ''You look like you need another drink.''

There was no objections from the man whose many grey hairs were probably caused by the same reason he was here.

Several drinks and a slurred confession later, Sherlock is explaining in great detail exactly what Detective Lestrade needs to catch the serial murderer that has pushed him to drink.

''You're not looking at it correctly. They're all linked by one thing.'' Sherlock explains. He's sure that Lestrade won't remember most of it, but when he goes back to the case the memories should be triggered.

As Lestrade nearly falls asleep at the last drink of the night, Sherlock slips a scrap of paper with his name and phone number on it into his pocket. With any luck, he'll call.

Four months later, after the case is solved and Lestrade is promoted, another strange series of murders occurs.

Two days later, Sherlock's phone rings.

''Sherlock Holmes? This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to talk to you.''

Sherlock smirks into the phone receiver. ''On my way.''


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry guys, I actually wrote these a few months ago, it's just a matter of copy-paste and I'm finally doing it now for you guys... Sorry again. My Wattpad (Under the same username) had the full story and I never got around to publishing the rest of the chapters here.**

Sherlock is thirty. Lestrade has come to trust his judgement, he has constant access to testosterone, and he can dissect corpses whenever he feels like it.

Why is he so damn _bored?_

He's been looking for a flatmate. But wherever he turns, the people are dull. Ordinary.

Sherlock has almost given up on his search. He's been hoping that somehow, there will be someone that will be at least _half_ interesting.

As the days pass by, he finds himself complaining to the people he likes to complain to.

''No, Sherlock. My wife-''

''Is still sleeping with her personal trainer.''

Lestrade swears under his breath, equally about this information and about the rough metal murder weapon Sherlock has just fished out of a freezer.

''Look, I can't have you live with us. We've got personal problems, and we need to work it out on our own.''

Sherlock frowns, casually handing the bloody, twisted scrap of metal to some forensics guy. ''It was the cousin.''

Sherlock leaves with a swish of his coat.

The next morning, Sherlock meets a man at the hospital who unlocks a few doors for him.

''Still looking for a flatmate?'' Mike asks. Usually Sherlock ignores him, but for some reason he feels talkative.

''No. I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for.''

Mike nods in agreement. ''I'd share, but I've already got one.

''No, Mike. Your personal habits would clash too horribly with mine.''

''Sorry mate, can't help you.''

Sherlock doesn't reply, examining the vegetation under his microscope.

Paint flecks...

He doesn't realize how much time has gone by.

''Bit different from my day.''

Sherlock glances up. Mike's brought someone with him, and balance of probability says he's a potential flatmate.

''Mike, can I borrow your phone?''  
Mike pats his pockets. ''Sorry, other coat.''

The other man, who was quiet until now, limps over and holds out his phone. ''Here, use mine.''

Sherlock sends out a text, but not before gathering a bit of information from the phone about its owner.

His lips curl up in a half smile. ''Afghanistan or Iraq?''

Perhaps this one won't be quite as boring.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock is thirty-three. He's been living with John for three years now, solving crimes and generally annoying the hell out of his flatmate.

He's finding it harder and harder to come out to John.

''Jesus, Sherlock!'' John exclaims, covering his mouth and nose with his coat. He's just walked into a huge cloud of smoke, no doubt caused by the detective.

Sherlock's almost amused. ''Hello, John.'' He says, more cheery than most people would be with a severed tongue in one hand and a small fire burning on the counter. It almost sounds fake to John.

Strange.

''Have you figured it out yet?'' John asks, opening a window and fanning out the horrid smell of singed human flesh. ''What the murderer's been doing with the tongues?''

Sherlock doesn't answer, apparently absorbed in his work.

John sighs and sits down with a newspaper. Sherlock's been acting weirdly for weeks, even by Sherlock standards. But John rarely gets an answer to his questions, or even more than a greeting or goodbye.

The next day, Sherlock vanishes. Just gone, without a trace. John's slightly worried, but he knows Sherlock. He gives it a day before trying to track his friend down.

John looks everywhere, tries everything. He can't find Sherlock.

Even that high-and-mighty bastard of a brother, Mycroft, is keeping his answers sufficiently vague. John's not getting any information from him.

His next, more logical solution is to ask Lestrade to help.

''Yeah, he's gone off and gotten himself the surgery.'' Greg nods over the phone, momentarily forgetting that John can't see him.

''Surgery?'' John asks, raising his eyebrows.

Lestrade lets out a surprised and slightly confused sound. He's assumed that John already knows.

Apparently he doesn't.

''Ask Sherlock when he gets back.''

John sighs in frustration and relief. At least Greg knows where he is. If John wants more information, he can always try Lestrade. But this surgery worries him. Is Sherlock sick or hurt? John hasn't seen any signs of that.

John hangs up the phone, sitting down in his chair and letting out a long sigh.

Three days later, Sherlock's back.

He's still acting strangely. He refuses to move for cases, though he demands that John bring him things to solve. John's getting worried about the amount of painkillers he's taking. But in a moment when Sherlock's asleep, he notes that they're prescribed to him. Well, Greg did mention surgery.

Sherlock finally gets up. John was getting used to the detective staying in bed all day and all night, but apparently Sherlock decided to change that.

''You're worried.'' John hears near his ear, nearly making him drop his toast.

''Yeah, Sherlock. What the hell have you been doing? Don't tell me it's for a Goddamn murder. I phoned Lestrade. I'm a bloody doctor, tell me next time something like this happens.''

Sherlock seems to shrink a little, like a child being reprimanded by a parent. ''John... there's something I've been meaning to tell you. I've just been unable to.''

Now John's curious. Sherlock is trying his best to not tremble, but John can see it. Sherlock doesn't want to lose him.

''John, I have had a surgery, as Lestrade told you. I've had my breasts removed, and my chest reconstructed into a more typical male shape.''

John takes a moment to process this.

''So you're-''

''Still male. I am a man. I was assigned female at birth.''

''Transgender.''

''Yes.''

John lets out an almost laugh, clearly relieved. ''God, Sherlock. I thought it was something life-threatening.''


End file.
